Elephantine Dreams
by RoseFrederick
Summary: Perhaps reality is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps not.


**Elephantine Dreams**

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A/N: Written for the darkfic exchange, Darkest Night in 2016, for the prompts insanity, self-harm, self-destruction, though mainly spring-boarding off the first one.

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His suit may be a manifest display of expensive and impeccable taste typical of those who want to seem most in control, but the expression on the face of the tall young man who rushes through the hospital's doors is as panicked and unguarded as any the doctor sees on a daily basis. "How is he? Is he okay? I can't believe he -"

The Doctor raises his hands in a warding gesture, and replies sternly, "Mr. Winchester, please calm down. As the nurse told you on the phone, your brother has come to no permanent harm."

Sam Winchester draws a hand through his hair, messing up the previous careful styling. "I know you told me not to expect him to ever get better." He sighs, but it doesn't dissipate the agitation. His eyes snap up and bore into the doctor's as his tone turns accusing, "You didn't tell me he'd get worse!"

Patiently, the doctor starts to explain, "He's not getting worse -"

Sam refuses to let him finish, his voice rising above and drowning out the doctor's attempt at placation. "Not getting worse? Not getting worse? _He tried to throw himself off a building!_ "

The doctor sighs. "I'm afraid we were too incautious about monitoring his associations with the other patients. He and Mr. Lafitte seemed to get along well enough and when Mr. Novak joined them, we didn't anticipate any problems developing. Unfortunately, Mr. Novak's delusions of being an angel played more directly into supporting your brother's psychosis than we could have ever guessed. It's not a mistake we'll let happen again."

If the statement is mean to soothe Sam, it seems to have the opposite effect as he straightens and glares down at the other man. "You're damn right you won't let it happen again! Do you know who I am? Do you know who I work for?" Sam Winchester looming over one is not exactly an experience to calm the nerves, but Dr. Singer simply listens patiently, letting the young man vent. "I expect you to take better care of my brother than this, Dr. Singer, or we're going to be meeting in a court room next time!"

"Mr. Winchester, I assure you, we are doing the best we can. This is one of the best facilities in the Southern US. I do not appreciate you insulting the professionalism of myself or my staff," the doctor replies coldly, drawing himself up to his own full height. It would have been more intimidating if the young man in the suit hadn't still been at least five inches taller.

Just as fast as his fear had turned to anger, the anger drains out of Sam. He slumps in on himself, looking both younger and sadder, as well as a little lost. "Just tell me again? Tell me that this would have happened anyway, even if I hadn't gone off to college. I keep having these nightmares -"

With the young man's change in attitude, the doctor forces his own demeanor to turn soothing. He nods and reassures, "From what you've told me, yes, your brother's complete break with reality would have happened sooner or later. The fact he was already making up fantastical stories to explain your father's absenteeism and the other harsh conditions of your childhood – there's nothing you could have done."

When Sam makes no response, the doctor continues on. "Perhaps it would have been some other trigger that pushed him over the edge rather than your father's death. However, I think we both have to agree that with his belief in monsters, it's best he came looking for you before he harmed someone other than himself. And I truly don't think that was his intent this time, he seemed to be aiming for the fence to escape - as dangerous of a fall as it was notwithstanding. I promise you, he won't be left to move that freely unsupervised again."

Sam's expression doesn't lose his sadness and he doesn't look entirely convinced, but he pushes no further. Instead he asks, "Can I see him?"

"Of course."

Dr. Singer leads him down the white institutional corridor to a locked room. Inside, Dean sits on a bed in scrubs staring blankly out the window. The doctor gives Sam the usual instructions and allows him to go inside.

"Dean?" For a moment, Sam isn't sure Dean is going to respond to his presence at all. There's a bandage wrapped around his left arm and a few cuts and bruises visible on both his arms and his face, but as the doctor promised, Dean looks mostly unharmed from his accident.

"Hey, Sam." His brother's voice is listless and he doesn't turn away from the window. Sam tries not to let it discourage him and tells his brother about the things that have been happening in his life. Amelia's latest patients, his latest case, the funny thing that Riot did with his socks the other day. He even tries mentioning an issue with the car, sure that will bring the brother he remembers out to engage. Even that doesn't work, and Sam has to work hard to choke back the feeling of despair. He vaguely remembers hoping the doctors would be wrong and Dean would get better, but that feels like a very long time ago. He doesn't mention Dean's temporary escape from the ward and attempt to jump off the roof. He knows from past experience that finding out whatever it had been prompted by in Dean's screwed-up head will just upset him more.

Eventually, Sam's attempts at small talk wind down. Dean has still said nothing and the silence between them stretches loud and unbroken too long for Sam to bear any longer. "Dean?"

For the first time, Dean turns away from the window and pins Sam with a piercing look. "I think they're Baku. Jim hunted a pack once if I remember right, and what I know fits. They feast on nightmares and hope, and they can create fake dream worlds almost like a djinn when it suits them. Difference is they're not blood-sucking freaks that ever directly kill you, which makes them damn hard to track down. No idea how to gank one or break their illusions, so I don't suppose you're going to come back to reality any time soon and help me kill these sons of bitches?" Sam just stares at Dean, unable to say a word. "No? Yeah, I don't blame you. At least they gave you the happy dreams."

"Oh, Dean." It's so hard for Sam to listen to these fantasies, he can hardly bear it. He's even been guilty of letting it keep him from coming to see his brother as often as he should. He'd thought when they were children that Dean was just making up stories, either to make him feel better about their father or to scare him into obedience. Now, now he knows that something in Dean was just messed up. He's been here enough times to know there's no point arguing that monsters don't exist, though. Sam says his goodbyes to his brother, promising to come back and see him sometime soon. Dean sighs and turns back to the window, muttering a goodbye of his own.

As he walks back out of the building with his shoulders slumped and his spirits down, not yet willing to allow himself to be cheered up by the thought of the life waiting back at home for him, he never notices the strange inhuman shift of color in the doctor's eyes as it watches him leave, satisfied both the hunters are exactly where it wants – separated and vulnerable. One drowning in nightmares of abandonment and the other so desperate for some semblance of normal life he'll willingly deny reality in favor of a deftly crafted revisionist fantasy. There's enough pain and fear with these two alone to feed the pack for years, and neither hunter will make a move to change it by themselves so long as they think the other is better off where they are. It's perfect.


End file.
